This is what is is vintage jan 14thish.

Crimson grass
Bleeding brown
Systematic of downtown
I had a message
I wanted to say
It was lost within fields of grey

I told my story
To a drunk
He regailed back
Both messages missed
His ignored
As mine was too

But could I solve
The puzzle I was under
Did the amber blaze my blunder
Was it told
And clear as day
Did I walk in fields of grey

Most likely as lost
As time its self
In my place I see
You heard all
As It was spilt
Yet nothing I said was free

So always I remain
A silent host of words
I let you think
My surface is clean
And under it all
I dissapear